


Knowledge's Mirror

by rei_c



Series: Knowledge 'Verse [11]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/F, M/M, POV Outsider, Secrets, Voodoo
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-16
Updated: 2019-08-16
Packaged: 2020-09-02 09:48:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,357
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20273935
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rei_c/pseuds/rei_c
Summary: Michèle Freedman, Petrokonfians kayof Phoenix, does not expect to have thepoto mitanshow up on her doorstep. She doesn't expect the questions he asks, either -- and doesn't like what they imply.





	Knowledge's Mirror

Michèle's only met Sam Winchester twice: once back in 2003 for the official naming of the first rider of the _poto mitan_ and the acknowledgement of the trinity by the New Orleans Petro and Rada _konfians kays_, then the second time about three months after that when Sam was making his rounds around the country. Phoenix is a dry place, land and air both, and it was the first time a sitting _poto mitan_ ever bothered to come to Arizona on purpose, rather than just driving through from California to Louisiana. He stayed for two weeks, spent time with Michèle and her Petro as well as Michèle's wife -- well, common-law wife, anyway -- Ana, the Rada _konfians kay_, and _her_ people, met their kids and made an effort to get to know them, the _konfians kays_ who made the desert and the people here their own. 

Michèle hadn't expected to see Sam again, not until the next major gathering, maybe when he and his boyfriend, Dean, finally have time to have a proper investiture ceremony for Dean as New Orleans Petro _konfians kay_. And yet, here he is -- Sam Winchester, _poto mitan_, on her doorstep at three pm on a random Saturday in May. 

She stares at him, can't honestly believe her eyes, finally sputters out, "Sa -- _poto mitan_? Is it -- are you -- but --," before he takes pity on her and cuts her off gently. 

"May I speak with you and Ana, please?" he asks. "If you're both available now, that is. If not, I can come back when you have time." 

"No, we're -- I mean, yes, of course, please," Michèle says, steps to one side, holds the door open. "We're honoured." 

Sam gives her a wry grin, fatigue clearly visible in the curves of his smile, the light of his eyes. "You may not be, once I've -- well. We'll see." He wipes his feet on the mat, asks, "Should I take my shoes off?" When she says yes, she watches, still stunned, still slightly out-of-it, as he toes his sneakers off, kicks them against the wall. 

There's a tiny hole in the side of his sock, a mended hole along the big toe. Sometimes Michèle forgets that this man, larger-than-life in his role, is just like her. 

He waits; it takes Michèle a second to realise he's waiting for _her_. Bondye, but she's never been so taken off-guard in her life. She gives herself a mental kick, finally takes a real breath, gives Sam a sheepish smile of her own. "Sorry," she says, and gestures for him to follow her into the kitchen. "I can honestly say that you were the last person I expected to see on my doorstep." 

Ana's in the kitchen; she likes the light at the kitchen table the best to work, and she doesn't look up before asking, "Who was it, Meesh?" 

Michèle watches Ana for a moment, tries to see her the way Sam might: her thick long hair piled on top of her head, loupe in one eye as she adjusts the gemstone in a bracelet under the lit magnifying glass. Dark skin, dark hair, unwaxed eyebrows and a hint of hair on her upper lip, a brightly patterned sleeveless maxi dress with grinning sugar skulls. It's a sight that Michèle's been in love with for twenty years now. 

"Ana," Sam says. 

Her head snaps up, instantly, and her pupils dilate noticeably, but her hands are steady as she sets down the bracelet, turns off the extra light, takes out the jeweler's loupe. "Sam," she says, the deep husk of her voice a balm to the last remnants of adrenaline in Michèle's system. "_Poto mitan_." She stands up, comes over, dips into a curtsey and holds out her hands for Sam's. His long fingers slide over hers and Ana lifts them, kisses his knuckles, then accepts the kiss from him, pressed to her forehead. 

Shit. Michèle didn't even greet him. 

"Can we get you something to drink?" Ana asks. "A snack? Are you hungry? We have brownies, I think, and a few leftover cupcakes if you'd like something sweet." 

"How's Paola doing?" Sam asks, and he sits when Ana gestures for him to, stretches out his legs, settles into the chair. "She's -- what, seven now? Eight?" 

Ana grins. "Eighth birthday on Tuesday," she says. "And a whole handful of trouble beside." 

Sam laughs; in the time that takes, Ana looks at Michèle, frowns when Michèle only shakes her head. Ana tilts her head to the fridge; Michèle takes the cue and sets about getting drinks for them all, brings over the tupperware of cupcakes, has a feeling that none of them are going to get eaten. 

After Sam's had a couple sips of water, after Michèle's sat down next to Ana, Ana says, half a question, "I take it you're not here for pleasure or you would have brought Dean."

"I wish I could spend more time," Sam says, and goes on before either of them can protest. "But you're right, this is -- I have a request. You're both more than welcome to decline." He frowns, adds, "You might want to seriously consider declining. Please don't feel pressured to agree before you've thought about it." Ana nods, Michèle motions for Sam to go on. Sam takes a deep breath. "I'm going to prepare the Rite of Mirrors," he says, and before Michèle can keel over from shock, he adds, "I want you two to serve as anchors." 

\--

Michèle was raised in vodou. Her mother married a Coast Guard serviceman stationed in New Orleans, had Michèle when she was barely nineteen, but her parents stuck together even with a colicky infant and a military salary through nine transfers, a handful of promotions, and two more kids, eventually settling in Florida once Michèle's dad retired. All the moving around, the different schools, the twins being born when Michèle was twelve after a lifetime of being an only child -- the one constant Michèle had through all of that was vodou, the stories her mother would tell her and the ceremonies she'd take Michèle to, and when Michèle was fifteen, she presented herself at the local _hounfor_, danced around the peristyle, and was claimed by the Petro. 

She never looked back, not once, not even when she fell in love with a Rada-struck jeweler who spends more time with her head tilted downward to look at gems and stones than anything else. 

It's been a long, sometimes-hard road to get where they are now -- a steady job for Michèle, recognition for Ana, two daughters, a home they own in a city they run -- but Michèle knows who she is, knows what she is, and knows as much about her faith as any New Orleans lineage. 

She knows about the Rite of Mirrors, can remember her mother telling her about it for the first time, the two of them in the _hounfor_, sitting in front of the altar with Petro _drapo_ fluttering around them. 

_I hope you never need to know this_, her mother said. _I hope you'll never live in a time when our loa-blessed leader feels that there's a reason to initiate this rite, but listen close, Michèle, and I'll tell you about the mirrors._

_Papa says that if you break a mirror, you get seven years of bad luck_, Michèle said. _But gran told me that's nonsense. Like the things about ladders and black cats and salt._

Her mother had laughed; Michèle remembers the sound made her shiver, gave her chills, had her pulling her knees to her chest, clutching her legs tight. 

_These mirrors won't bring bad luck if you behave_, her mother said. _And you don't have to worry about them breaking. They're not real mirrors._

_What are they_? Michèle had asked. _Why is it called the mirrors if there aren't any mirrors?_

It had taken her mother a moment to reply. Michèle waited, she knows that, but wouldn't be able to guess now how long that wait was. At the time, it felt like barely a second. Now, she thinks maybe it was a whole handful of silent, drawn-out minutes.

_The loa look into us,_ she'd said. _They're the mirrors. They look into us, through us, and if they don't see what they want, if they see a truth they don't like, then the loa -- maybe it's better to say that we're supposed to be a mirror of them, because if they don't like what they see, they break us. There's no hiding, no lies, no second chances, no explaining anything away, no mercy. We are the loa's mirrors, Michèle-my-darling, and if we don't show their reflection, then we die._ Michèle had made a noise, she's not sure today what that noise was, how it must have sounded, but Michèle's mother wrapped an arm around her shoulders, pulled her close. _If you obey and you're faithful, you have nothing to worry about. But if our _poto mitan_ ever invokes _zo reglemen_ and begins the Rite of Mirrors, then something, somewhere is wrong -- and someone will pay. Someone will shatter._

Michèle looks at Sam, sitting across the table, looking at her with fathomless, dark eyes, like he re-lived that memory with her. "Have you invoked, _poto mitan_?" 

"No," Sam says. "Not yet. But I -- it's just a feeling. I want my bases covered. I don't think Dennis will be the last challenge to my position and I think that she's only the beginning of something bigger." 

"Do you -- are there reasons?" Ana asks. "Have the loa said anything?" 

Sam gives her a look, something thoughtful, Michèle thinks. "They haven't _not_ said anything," Sam says. "I've been thinking about this since Dennis and not one of them has told me I'm overreacting. I choose to read into that when others might not, but --." He stops, shrugs one shoulder, takes a couple more sips of water. 

Michèle and Ana exchange looks. "Have you told Dean?" Michèle asks. 

Michèle's never met her New Orleans counterpart -- her leader, potentially, when Sam's out of reach -- but she's heard stories. She's heard about the way he dealt with Dennis, heard about the way he tangles fearlessly with Karrefour, heard that he knows things he shouldn't, only five months into this life, heard that Sam took him into Plaquemines and brought him right back out, unharmed and unchanged. If anyone would have an opinion about this, Dean would. 

"No," he says. "Dean's -- it's only been five months since Ogou rode Dean for the first time. There's been an adjustment period, for both of them. For me as well," he adds with a little smile that goes away almost as quick as it had appeared in the first place. "But I know what they'd say. They'd both want to deal with the horses now, whether that's punishment or exile or death. Patience has never been one of Ogou's traits and it's not one of Dean's, either. And I think patience is needed in this. I think it would be better to wait, invoke, and unleash the rite on all _konfians kays_ at the same time, rather than pick off horses one by one without the rite behind me."

"Things might get worse if you wait," Michèle points out. "Wouldn't it better to deal with whatever this is before things get to that point?" 

Sam lets out a breath, picks at a spot on his sleeve. "If I invoke and use the rite, no one will be able to argue with me," he says. "It won't be me. It'll be the bone law and the loa. All I'll need to do is power it -- and I can do that without anchors. But I'd like them." 

That's -- fuck. That's downright terrifying, to hear Sam admit he has enough power to invoke _and_ power the rite. The whole reason they have anchors is because the rite's killed every person who's initiated it by themselves. To know that Sam could hold the weight of it by himself and _live, fuck_. 

"If you could do it by yourself," Ana says carefully, calmly, the peaceful lilt in her voice a result of years of closeness to the Rada, "why are you asking for anchors?"

"I want there to be people outside of the rite when it begins," Sam says. When. Bondye. He's serious about this. "It won't pull you in for power, won't need anything from you, but you'll know it's happening, just like the loa, and just like everyone else. I want to be sure there are still other _konfians kays_ to lead if the rite takes longer than it should. Or," he adds, almost as if he doesn't want to, "if it takes leaders away from their cities. I want anchors to serve as stability for the community as a whole, not for stability of the rite."

Michèle takes that in, thinks through the implications. Sam's convinced that some people won't make it through the rite. He's convinced that the loa will find fault with people -- and he's willing to wait instead of taking care of the problem now. She disagrees with it, disagrees _violently_, and she's Petro enough to feel a sudden rush of fury at the thought of letting people go _bosal_ and poison her community. 

For a moment, she's Petro enough to want to argue, to yearn for blood _now_ \-- but only for a moment. She takes a deep breath, lets the fire flood through her and then dissipate, crashing under the weight of her responsibilities, her loyalty, her obedience. Once she's calm again, she asks, "And what will we need to do to serve as anchors? My mother never told me that."

Sam looks at them both, searching looks that go deep and run up against bone. "You'd go through the rite now," he says. "Meet the loa, on their terms, and let them judge you. That's why I want you to think this through. I wouldn't ask if I wasn't sure you'd pass; I have faith in the two of you. You're well-taught, you believe, you lead with respect but a firm hand. But you have Paola and Régine to consider. You have your careers and your family and your lives to think about. And I do want you to think about them, about everything. If you have any doubts, any at all, I'll find others."

"The rite traditionally takes five anchors," Michèle points out. "Two Rada, two Petro, and the _poto mitan_. Who else have you asked?"

"Brigitte, in Charleston, for the Petro," Sam says. Michèle remembers her, a fierce little thing full of fire. Brigitte was intimidating, but all the southern coastal _konfians kays_ are, to some extent. "She faced Bosou Koblamin."

Ana hums, thoughtful. "A good choice. Brigitte holds a lot of respect among the _konfians kays_. No one will question your decision to choose her, especially with her facing the Horned One. And the Rada?"

"Felicity," Sam says. "From --."

"Pittsburgh," Ana says. "Two on the east, two out west, all women. The races and locations aren't balanced, though," she points out. "Three southern, one northern. Three black, one Hispanic. To be truly balanced you'd need a black Rada here and a black Petro from the northwest, even two men if you wanted to make the balance perfect. William, in Seattle: he'd be a good balance to Brigitte."

"None of that matters in the desert," Sam says, once Ana's paused.

It takes a moment for Michèle to compute that. "In the -- the rite it takes place in the _desert_?" Michèle feels her heart skip a beat. "In the desert," she says again, a murmur this time. "Bondye."

"You see why I want you to give it some thought." Sam stands up, says, "Thank you for your hospitality. Call me when you're made a decision. Dean and I will be here until I hear from you. And Michèle, Ana: don't be afraid to say no. You won't be disappointing me."

"I have one question," Ana says, before Sam can leave. "Why not have Dean serve as an anchor?" Sam gives Ana a hard smile; she hurries to add, "If you don't mind me asking."

Sam's eyes narrow. Michèle looks down, away, from his gaze, because that look -- that look has a thin edge of death lurking around it. "Because Karrefour told me not to," Sam says. 

He lets himself out; good thing, because Michèle doesn't think she could stand right now if her life depended on it. 

Karrefour. Bondye, Ayizan, Damballah, and the Twins -- _Karrefour_ is advising Sam. Karrefour, loa of the night crossroads and the devil's cousin himself, who once tore apart a _poto mitan_ from the inside out before riding the corpse and slaughtering a dozen people, has taken an interest in such a rite as the mirrors. 

What the _fuck_ is going on?

"A good question," Ana says. Michèle hadn't even realised she'd spoken out loud. She looks at Ana, sees the worry she feels reflected back at her. 

\--

Ana goes back to the bracelet, Michèle back to her book. Paola comes home from her friend's in time for dinner and Régine's back a couple hours after that, in time for a bath before bed. Régine natters on cheerfully about the birthday party she's been at all day without noticing the tension but Paola watches them, doesn't say much. 

Once Régine's in bed, and Ana, Michele, and Paola are in front of the tv trying to figure out if anything good is on or if they'll have to put in a movie, Paola asks, "What happened?" 

Eight years old, and so precocious. 

"We had a visitor," Ana says. "Remember Sam, from a couple years ago, the really tall man? He stopped by and talked to us for a little bit. He asked us some questions that we're still thinking about." 

"Do you want me to go to bed?" Paola asks. 

Michele slides across the couch, gathers up her daughter in her arms. "No," she says. "Just because we're thinking doesn't mean we want you to leave." 

Paola accepts the cuddling for a few minutes, then groans, says, "Mom, god, c'mon," and wriggles loose, picks up the remote and starts waving it, says, "I'm gonna pick something if you can't decide." She doesn't go far, though, and the movie they finally settle on plays a little quieter than it normally would. 

\--

"I could go either way," Ana finally says, later that night when they're in bed, the house quiet and still around them. Paola's been asleep for a couple hours; Michèle and Ana have been in bed, spooning, holding each other, long enough that both of them should have fallen asleep by now as well. "I want to say yes but I know it could be dangerous. I don't like danger, putting myself into it or watching people I love walk into it." 

Michèle rolls over, looks at Ana. "But?" 

Ana lets out a deep breath. "But I want to do this."

Michèle grew up in this but Ana didn't, has always felt like something of an outsider even before she rose to _konfians kay_. This would stop the doubt, would prove once and for all that she deserves her place among them.

"If you want to do it, then you should," Michèle tells her.

Ana reaches out, lets her fingertips trail along Michèle's arm. "You?" she asks.

"I'm not -- I don't think -- I don't know," Michèle finally says. "I have a lot of doubt and something tells me that's not something I should be walking into the desert with."

She's never been the stereotypical Petro, all passion and tempestuousness and will, has more than a thread of fear and timidity running through her. Would the Petro judge her for that? Could she survive the desert, rite or not? Brigitte had no trouble, of that, Michèle is sure, even facing the Horned One.

"Sam said he knew we'd both pass," Ana says, reminds her. "It's not enough that he has faith in you?" 

"It should be," Michèle says. 

Should be -- but it isn't. 

\--

Ana undergoes the rite three days later. Michèle does not.


End file.
